Ballistic: Ecks Vs. Sever
REVIEWED 09/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Lurching through a dark vapid misery, rogue F.B.I. agent Jeremiah Ecks (Banderas) stumbles around a war zone-like Vancouver on the hunt for a mysterious trigger-happy ex-Soldier of Fortune turned kidnapper (Liu), a super-secret and largely plot-unimportant microscopic assassin, and a gorgeous estranged wife who doesn't seem to know how to say his name properly.

This pyrotechnic stinker isn't just loaded up with awful acting, lousy dialogue, amateurish camerawork, and an annoyingly cheesy MOOG soundtrack that's like a pastiche spliced out of the CBC's archive from the 1980's, but it's also got to be the fluffiest non-animated action movie that's ever been made. Sure, a big mess of high-powered ammo relentlessly blazes and sparks under a grey Northern sky. Sometimes in slow motion, at "Jeez"-yelping cops ducking for cover. Yeah, black claded figures snap in to heavily-choreographed, seizure-like martial arts fistfights. Without most of them seriously getting hurt, though. And, of course, a whole whack of stuff gets 'blowed up real good'. However, as an obviously Canadian-made American-style shoot 'em up, it plays itself out as being incredibly bland and laughably goofy.

There's nothing in this flick that suspends even the most willing of audiences' disbelief. There's really not much to the disjointed story that gives you any reason to care about these brooding gun-toting cardboard cutouts, either. Even if you're mesmirized by Banderas' surly eyebrows or Liu's angellic pancake make-up, as these two robotically face off and then join forces against a forgettable bad guy. This one's definitely a cash-glutted made-for-television bomb that must have wandered in to the big screen theatres by accident.

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The Banger Sisters
REVIEWED 09/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Just as Lavinia Kingsley (Sarandon) has finally settled in to her prim matriarchal socialite world, Suzette (Hawn), her still young at heart rock 'n' roll partyin' kindred spirit from twenty years ago unexpectedly appears. Upheaving her perfect and self-controlled family life, and forcing her to take a hard look at the seemingly mature choices she's made. yeah. This flick's definitely for the Boomer Generation.

Frankly, the story took a while to get these two together. However, when Suzette finally melts 'Vinnie's' frigid exterior and they start to re-kindle their girlish friendship - much to the chagrin of the Kingsley clan - this light comedy turns in to a pretty good buddy movie. Hawn is great, as the sassy yet flakey aging bar chick who's stuck in the Seventies with her wild exploits as an infamous groupie to the stars. And, Sarandon is completely believable, as her initially all-beige character blossoms and begins to thrive before your eyes. Even the side story between Suzette and Harry, a rather emotionally cramped would-be writer who she meets in the desert and ends up dragging along, is a wonderful dynamic to watch unfold. This is an offering about adults reclaiming their capacity to dream and play, just as they did as idealistic adolescents. And, it works.

'The Banger Sisters' isn't as quirky a romp as I'd expected, and there's a whole lot more swearing in it than the ads let on. All the same, the tight performances by these main cast members hold it together and draw you in, delivering a thoughtful and down to earth treat that's well worth checking out.

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Barbershop
REVIEWED 10/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Ice Cube heads an ensemble cast of oddball stereotypes in this fairly mediocre comedy of errors that (sometimes embarrassingly) keeps thinking it's a whole lot funnier than it actually is. The main story revolves around Calvin Palmer (Ice Cube), a third generation barber and owner of the South Side Chicago barbershop that his Grandfather first opened in 1958, whose frustration over his string of failed naive schemes and bad financial luck leads him in to making a flawed deal with the local loan shark. Much to the chagrin of his pregnant wife (Jazsmin Lewis), as well as eventually to Palmer's longtime mentor and the shop's resident curmudgeon (Cedric the Entertainer).

The first of two secondary stories woven into the plot involves a brooding two-strike felon turned hair cutter, his dumb cousin, an even dumber cohort, and an automatic banking machine that dumb and dumber recently stole from a nearby convenience store. Throughout the entire movie, we're forced to watch clippings of overall lame gags and overblown pratfalls concerning their idiotic attempts to chop open the cash machine. The third story features a rather noisy yet stylish glimpse into the tumultuous life of this establishment's only female staff member (recording artist Eve), as she splits hairs trying to find stability in both her personal and working relationships.

That said, I was disappointed in this flick. It's as though the scriptwriter wasn't really compitent enough to completely flesh out the potentially captivating main story and it's very few worthwhile extensions, so he crammed in as many extraneously predictable racially-highlighted scenarios as possible instead. Which is too bad, if that's the case. Ice Cube, Lewis, and Eve pull in razor sharp, well-shaped performances under the burden of offsetting this otherwise dishevelled tangle of puzzling, often groan-inducing, caricaturesque nonsense. If the ATM debackle had been handled much differently, and a heaping chunk of the so-called comedy relief scenes had been left on the cutting room floor, this offering's paying audience would likely have left their chairs far more satisfied.

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Between Strangers
REVIEWED 10/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Well, that was a nice nap. Me sitting there, in the darkened movie theatre. Drifting off in to a peculiar dream, in which several Academy Award-winning film stars had all found themselves in Toronto. Them slipping in to fairly disjointed lives. Spending most of their time uttering fairly mundane words to each other, followed by a lot of long pauses filled with soul-baring glances that go painfully unnoticed. This wealth of talent, boiling within their own deep personal emotional burdens, yet dreadfully unable to fully articulate any of it. Well, not really. I only wish that had been a dream, instead of the gyst of this terribly morose snoozer.

'Between Strangers' is actually a trio of stories about three unconnected women who drag themselves through most of this aching offering towards rather pedantic turning points in their disillusioned and crushingly stunted existances. When celebrated cellist Catherine (Deborah Unger) learns that her father (Malcolm McDowell) has been released on early parole, she is forced to deal with the twenty-two years' worth of devastating rage that wells up in her over her mother's death by this stranger's hand. Olivia (Sophia Loren) is trapped in a forty year marriage of convenience with her cruelly distant, wheelchair-bound husband (Pete Postlethwaite), when a strange notion to rekindle her artistic ability seems to open a door to an estranged daughter she was forced to give up for adoption when she herself was still a child. And, Reuters photographer Natalia (Mira Sorvino) has just returned to her lovingly overbearing father (Klaus Maria Brandauer) and a hero's welcome home, with her first magazine cover of an orphaned child snapped during her traumatizing stint in wartorn Angola. The foundation is there, but the conviction to create anything worthwhile enough for an audience to care about is sorely lacking.

With a cast of such callibre, it's easy to see how anyone would expect to be thoroughly enraptured by something meaningful and meaty dished up from beginning to end here. A series of provocative pearls of wisdom, for instance. Some awesomely crafted reflections of the human condition, tightly spun together with laser-sharp precision. From the outside, it's a no-brainer. Unfortunately, the no-brainer part pretty much all you get. After sitting through this torturous cinematic mire, except for the sparkling cameos by a comparably spry Gérard Depardieu, all you're presented with are major boughts of thundrous silence and heaps of comatose melancholia cobbled together and slapped against Hogtown's lesser known backdrops. Like some kind of after school special. Veteran entertainers sleepwalking like tongue-tied zombies through this turkey's half-baked and often flakey script is a complete waste of everyone's time and money. How sad.

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Blood Work
REVIEWED 08/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Methodically paced and almost seamlessly plotted out, this crime thriller is a rare treat for fans of this genre. As with most of Eastwood's cop movies, there's a certain stride of logic to the way his brand of anti-hero meticulously peels apart whatever case he's become obsessed with. Him focussing on each piece of evidence until the actual truth eventually emerges. It's like watching a master stonemason chip away at a block of marble until the sculpture that was always there is magically freed by his capable hands. Awesome.

Terry McCaleb (Eastwood) is an F.B.I. investigator forced in to an uneasy retirement after suffering a life-threatening heart attack and subsequent transplant operation. When a recent homicide victim's sister proves that McCaleb's new heart is linked to an unsolved crime, Old Steel Eyes ignores the valid objections of his overprotective doctor and uses his wits and connections to hunt down the killer. Possibly a ruthless serial killer and his nemesis-at-large who has unexpectedly returned from the past.

Sure, this flick plays out somewhat like an episode of 'Columbo' or 'Morse' at times, where you've got a pretty good idea of whodunnit before the lovably crotchety protagonist gets back on track, figures it out and (in this case) beds the gorgeous love interest and fills the bad guy with a fistful of bullets. When I grow up, I wanna be Clint Eastwood. Although, the only niggling gripe I had was that one relatively interesting question regarding a possible database security breach was never really resolved. That aside, and as with every entertainingly plotted out morality play, getting caught up in the action and the deductive reasoning used to ultimately mete out Eastwood's patented vengeful justice still gives you good reason to leave the theatre feeling completely satisfied.

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Bollywood/Hollywood
REVIEWED 11/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Toronto millionaire Rahul Seth (Rahul Khanna) has a dilemma: He can either abide by the promise towards family duty made ten years previously at the death bed of his father and marry the first Hindu woman his drama queen mother and curmudgeonly grandmother deem suitable, or he can continue to be indifferent to the whole notion of matrimony and continue pining for his pop star girlfriend who recently died in a freak transcendental meditation-induced levitation accident.

Of course, being a typical East Indian son easily blackmailed by a teary-eyed ultimatum that jeopardizes his kid sister's up-coming nuptuals, Rahul tries to do both. He hires Sue (Lisa Ray), the fiesty buxom escort who picked him up in a bar one lonely night, to pretend to be his bride-to-be. Offering up a premise for hilarious mayhem, except for the dismal fact that this is a Canadian movie. Meaning, it tries way too hard to be chock full of hilarious mayhem. To the point of quickly running out of ideas and ending up mocking itself. 'Bollywood/Hollywood' is so underwhelmingly anti-funny as it attempts to uncreatively squeeze every blatently stereotypical mismatch between North American and Indo-Asian culture out of itself, that you can't help but want to grab writer/director Deepa Mehta by the shoulders afterwards and shake her into a coma for wasting her time on this useless stinker. Old ladies spitting out lines from Shakespeare is not comedy. Droopy middle aged chauffeurs moonlighting in ethnic drag as lounge acts is not quirky enough anymore to be funny. Even the stunted one-liner dialogue, amateurishly lousy acting, or any of the plot bits cited here that are clumsily presented on the big screen aren't worth laughing at.

This is an incredibly bad movie. It's bigotted. It's boring. It's stupid. If it weren't for the reasonably entertaining bouts of prerequisite Bolly-style singing and dancing almost grudgingly smattered throughout, and my conviction to sit through this entire turkey in order to review it properly, I would've walked out at the halfway mark demanding a refund. The last half was just as nauseatingly crappy as the first half, never picking up steam or giving the audience any reason to (as the Telefilm Canada blurb guarantees) leave the theatre smiling. I don't know why Mehta's last feature film was banned in India, but this one should've been canned before making it past Hogtown's city limits.

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Bowling for Columbine
REVIEWED 10/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

You may remember the headlines: Two gun-toting, disenfranchised teenagers walked in to their Colorado high school library one April morning in 1999, shooting and killing a teacher and twelve of their fellow students, wounding and maiming dozens of other terrified kids. This horrible tragedy is the foundation from which writer, producer, and director Michael Moore sets off on a meandering rampage to challenge America's lifelong love affair with guns. To put it in to some kind of layman's perspective. To ask a few pointed questions about it to both the right and wrong sorts of people. And, of course, to poke some light-hearted fun at the hypocrisies, as an almost disillusioned self-professed card carrying member of the N.R.A.

One of this film's main points about the Columbine Massacre has to do with the accountability of influence. What specifically made these two young men apparently think nothing of emptying over nine hundred rounds of semi-automatic ammunition with such deadly force, sometimes at point blank range? Was it because of the heavily militarized environment of their relatively ordinary community of Littleton? Was it from them repeatedly listening to the music of shock rocker Marilyn Manson? From them seeing a steady stream of daily news covering the then-U.S. bombing of Kosovo? From playing violent video games? Well, fact is, these two killers had spent the earlier part of that day bowling. Did bowling turn them in to blood-thirsty murderers? Moore tries to find out. Taking his audience on a somewhat intelligently skeptical and mildly irreverant roadtrip through the minds of those who may have influenced this senselessly brutal act. Juxtaposing interviews with a representative from the nearby corporate headquarters of worldwide weapons of mass destruction supplier Lockheed-Martin with those of teens and adults victimized by the shootings, and the media that brought the story into our homes. He looks at the underlying and widespread 'culture of fear' that seems prevelant throughout America, comparing the statistical history of violence in that small town with those of other cities, states, and countries, talking to law enforcement officers, local militia groups, security providers, social scientists, public relations managers, and celebrities. None of whom really seem to know, despite being certain of their own questionable opinions.

Admittedly, I'm not a big fan of Michael Moore's heavy-handed, Noam Chomsky-inspired philosophy of blaming lazy politicians and big business by default. This latest offering makes no bones about wagging it's quirky, conspiracy-loving, filthy rich-hating finger at these souless and greedy monoliths of power for the often self-induced woes of simple blue collar Americans. This is where 'Bowling for Columbine' tends to get wildly sidetracked by it's own premeditated bias that something or someone in broader authority is far more accountable for such horrors as Columbine than the screwed up kids who pulled the triggers. It unabashedly exploits every predator, prey, parasite, pedestrian, and Prozac-popper alike, in it's riteous cause for a crisp brand of magic bullet truth. At the same time, pulling sappy stunts like erecting a shrine to a little girl shot and killed by her six year-old classmate, at the door of Charlton Heston, belittling Moore's apparent cathartic need for valid meaning with contrived propagandist soundbites. It's a good thought-provoking movie, featuring a wealth of low-key entertainment and useful information, but take it with a grain of salt.

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The Bourne Identity
REVIEWED 06/02, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Shot, amnesiatic, and left for dead, Jason Bourne is plucked from the ocean to begin piecing together memories of who he is in this sometimes action-packed, sometimes plodding movie. Sure, Matt Damon does some pretty amazing stunts and kicks some serious ass as an Agency sleeper/assassin, but he also bogs things down by indulgently wallowing in a kind of bleak fog of numbing confusion as Bourne. Taking the blank-slate-with-killer-instincts too far for too long. Him wandering around Paris in youthfully grim determination like a bad impersonation of Karloff's Frankenstein as James Bond. Barely one step ahead of the clean up efforts of his shadowy employers, beating on his various attackers with brutal velocity, yet never really expressing deep frustration or true humanity. Leaving the audience feeling a bit chilly and wondering what the heck's going on in his head, unconvinced that his character or situation is worth caring about, and hoping for another fight scene to explode through a window so that we can at least feel as though we've been entertained.

It could be that Matt Damon was simply wrong for this lone wolf on the lam role. Maybe it's just that the script was badly handled for today's North American audience. I'll confess that I gave up on Ludlum's seemingly undercooked book about a third of the way through, and never saw the Richard Chamberlain film adaptation. However, during the low spots in this version, I kept wondering how other actors would've handled his role differently. Bruce Willis, as the smart alec tough guy with a soft heart. Samuel L. Jackson, as the intellectual nursing a simmering cruel streak. Even Sharon Stone, with her own brand of delicious insanity. Checking in on Damon's portrayal every so-often, my mind ended up comparing this movie to Robert Redford's "Three Days of the Condor". A movie made almost thirty years ago, in which a civilian researcher has to use his wits to survive a maze of Agency subterfuge and unchecked corruption after his co-workers are gunned down at their desks. Despite the obvious story differences, these two movies are quite similar. "Condor" being the better of the two.

So, I was disappointed by "The Bourne Identity". I liked the title. I liked seeing my surname in big bold letters on the movie poster, and up on the screen. I got a kick out of one character growling, "I want Bourne in a body bag," as though he'd read this review before I'd written it. I wouldn't recommend paying full ticket prices to go see this movie, though. Rent it, or wait 'til it hits the Movie Channel, and hope that John Woo does a better job directing the sequel.

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Bringing Down the House
REVIEWED 03/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

I'm going to rant now. In 1968, two films co-starring actor Sidney Poitier were nominated for an Academy Award: 'Guess Who's Coming to Dinner' (1967), in which the engagement of an interracial couple causes havoc amongst both Whites and Blacks portrayed onscreen, and 'In The Heat of the Night' (1967), in which a Black police investigator finds himself facing hardcore racism in America's South. 1968 was also the only time when The Oscars have ever been postponed because of a Black man. Four days before the awards' scheduled date, famed social activist Reverend Martin Luther King was assassinated on April 4th, bumping it (out of respect) to the 10th. Ironically, 'In The Heat of the Night' won best picture that night, and Spencer Tracey - who had died ten days after filming his last scene for 'Guess Who's Coming to Dinner' - posthumously won for Best Actor. Poitier, who's famous 'Dinner' line "You think of yourself as a colored man. I think of myself as a man," still rings true today, wasn't even nominated that year. Thirty-five years later, that line still doesn't seem to make sense to Hollywood. Perfect example: 'Bringing Down the House'.

Taking his first real baby steps from under the shadow of his recently failed marriage, prim expert tax lawyer Peter Sanderson (Steve Martin) finds himself connecting under his anonymous online moniker 'legaleagle' with 'lawyer_girl', a bright and intelligent woman he's met through the Internet. They've chatted daily for a while now, exchanged their real names and photos, and have planned to finally meet over the intimate dinner that Peter has prepared for them at his high-priced suburban L.A. home (a first meeting scenario that would never seriously happen in real life, folks). All the same, he's nervously eager to impress Charlene, this young slim blonde - until the doorbell rings, and he's face to face with a rather heavily tattooed African-American woman who's on the lam after escaping from prison where she's served time for armed robbery and assaulting a peace officer. This is the real Charlene 'lawyer_girl' Morton (Queen Latifah), and as Sanderson quickly discovers, she's not going anywhere until he helps her reopen and appeal her case. Things go from contrived to embarrassing, when Peter begs Charlene to pretend to be his live-in maid and nanny for his two kids, while he tries to avoid having his nosey neighbour spread bigoted rumours to her brother (Peter's boss), and woo a Southern-bred English eccentric and coffee conglomerate heiress for his law firm. Why he should feel the need to sneak around like that in this day and age is, well, I'd already touched on why in the first paragraph of this review. Didn't I?

Welcome to the New Millennium Minstrel Show with this one. Where blackface has been replaced with egg on the faces of those who still believe showing cheesy stereotypes of Blacks as sassy boiz and grrlz stuttering out Hip Hop patter to cheesy stereotypes of middle aged Lexus-driving Whites (who ultimately ape the former's lingo and fashion for cheap laughs) is funny. It's not funny. Just as it wasn't funny well over thirty-five years ago. Sure, there are a couple of meagerly humourous slapstick pratfalls tossed in with one or two sincere scenes where our heroes give their collective heads a shake and interact without stupidly obsessing over the same old unimportant racial lines, to offer a glimmer of hope. However, they're not enough and don't last. Whoops. There's Martin acting like an Eminem-inspired resurrection of Al Jolsen's infamous 'Mammy' crap. Gaw-lee. What a complete waste of time and talent.

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Basic
REVIEWED 05/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Two hundred and sixty-two light-years from Earth, the pale blue-white star called Spica (Greek for 'ear of wheat') sits virtually alone in the Equatorial night skies. It represents the stalk in the left hand of the sixth and biggest zodiacal constellation: Virgo, wife of Zeus. Over three thousand years before illiterate Spanish adventurer Francisco Pizarro (1471-1541) 'discovered' and enslaved the Incan Empire in 1533, this largest known cluster of galaxies (more than twenty-five hundred) was worshipped by ancient Peruvians as the White Goddess Mama-K'oca, their agricultural deity for the sacred medicinal coca plant. Erythroxylum coca and Erythroxylum truxillense, the family of reddish barked shrubs shrouded by small yellow-petalled flowers and indigenous to Central America, didn't become popular in Europe and elsewhere until cocaine, its alkaloid by-product, was chemically isolated in 1855 and proceeded to be used as a topical anesthetic, a treatment for morphine addiction (by Freud), and a component in a variety of refreshing tonics - including Coca Cola, invented by American John S. Pemberton in 1886. The 1880's also saw Frenchman Ferdinand de Lesseps' eight-year work on the first doomed attempt to build the Panama Canal slowly grind to a halt due to corruption, bad management, and that Isthmus' malaria-infested impenetrable jungle. Ironically, it would take a massive flip in public opinion to convince Pemberton to remove Coke's namesake ingredient in 1901, and a partnership treaty between the United States and Columbia (Panama's neighbouring overlord, after Spain, until 1903) to pave the way for the Canal's historic completion in 1914. Anyone who remembers the US Special Forces' 1989 Rock 'n' Roll assault on Columbian drug lord dictator Noriega might find that last bit ironic anyways...

Miles from an unnamed American military base stationed in Panama, during a grueling and rain-drenched live-fire training exercise commanded in person by sadistic Army Sergeant Nathan West (Samuel L. Jackson), six fatigued 'Snake Eaters' (the nickname for this real life elite light infantry unit known as the 75th Ranger Regiment) repel into the deep rainforest straddling a secluded section of the Canal under a dangerous moonlit cloud of impending death. Seventeen hours later, all radio contact is lost and a rescue chopper is dispatched, to discover a very real battle underway in the thickly gnarled flora below. Seven went in, five never came back, and neither Raymond Dunbar (Brian Van Holt) nor Levi Kendall (Giovanni Ribisi) - the two survivors - are saying anything to Lieutenant Julia Osborne (Connie Nielsen), the base's starched yet feisty police investigator. Probably because Kendall's still unconscious from his wounds, and Dunbar insists on sitting tight and closed-lipped until an outside Ranger is brought in to interrogate him. And hey, as fate would have it, ex-75th Regiment officer, Base Commander buddy, and enigmatic scoundrel Tom Hardy (John Travolta) just so happens to be a short Jeep ride away. Funny, that. Tom quickly pries a story out of Raymond. However, he and Osborne then get a conflicting story out of a groggy Kendall. Leading to a third version of the events surrounding West's murder and his unit's subsequently bullet-riddled and bloody Mexican Stand-Off. The truth is further confounded when Julia stumbles onto evidence pointing to a rogue splinter group of ex-Special Forces operatives, called 'Section Eight', who disappeared into the Caribbean drug lands years ago and shared a fierce mutual hatred with Nathan. Then, the hint of illicit drug use throughout the troop crops up. Of course, by the time story versions four, five, and six are thrown onto the table, everyone seems guilty of something. Including the couple sitting two rows down from you in the movie theatre!

I suspect about the only way anyone could easily keep track of what the heck goes on in 'Basic' would be if the ushers handed out samples of cocaine to the audience before show time. There's nothing about this whacked out turkey that's basic. It's an unnecessarily complicated heap of junk. Confusingly, on purpose. As though a schizophrenic Narcotics Anonymous dropout was writing the script hopped up on crack while the cameras were rolling. A hundred flying monkeys banging on a hundred rubber typewriters for a hundred years might not come up with a single sonnet, but they'd all probably turn out a more cohesively satisfying plotline than the one this picture has. Sitting through this dark wet and intensely boring celluloid miasma, I kept expecting Professor Plum to jump out from behind a tree and clock Samuel Jackson upside the skull with a lead pipe. In the library. It gets that stupid after a while. The fairly weak fleshing out of the main cast - y'know, so you're actually given a reason to care whodunit or why - doesn't help matters much, either. And then, there's the mind-bendingly ridiculous ending that just leaves you feeling nauseous and jonesing for your money back. Frankly, it's an all around baaad trip. Just say 'No', folks.

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Bruce Almighty
REVIEWED 05/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Divine comedy nails more than laughs. Fired and beaten up, former human interest reporter for Buffalo's Channel 8 Eyewitness News Bruce Nolan (Jim Carrey) is summoned to the outwardly abandoned 'Omni Presents' warehouse by none other than God (Morgan Freeman). See, the man upstairs is tired of this self-absorbed martyr's constant whining about how unfair life is, and gives Bruce the power to do something about it. All of the power. Which turns out to be great for this one lustful and vengeful guy, but ends up - among other things - causing rioting by hordes of lottery winners and Doomsday prophets when he opts to grant everyone's prayers in one fell swoop. More importantly, omnipotent Nolan finds that he's still not able to answer the simple wish of local Daycare teacher Grace (Jennifer Aniston), his faithfully adoring girlfriend of five years who just wants them to be happy together.

This flick's definitely worth checking out. Carrey is fantastic, balancing his wildly rubbery brand of funny with a refreshingly adept acting style that truly gives his character the kind of depth needed to carry this completely satisfying movie. You're given reasons to care about him and what happens to his life and the people around him. Donning a baseball cap that's reminiscent of George Burns' lovably wise Lord in 'Oh God!' (1977), Freeman also gives this deity a personable down to earth wit that's immediately captivating and memorable. Sure, there's a host of goofy stunts that are sure to have you splitting a gut with laughter throughout, but the best aspect of this surprisingly entertaining gem is that it's not crammed to high Heaven with vacuous hilarity and cleverly paces itself with a solid story and interesting characters that stay with you long after the ending credits roll. Awesome.

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Bad Boys 2
REVIEWED 08/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Brutal Cuban drug lord Hector Juan Carlos "Johnny" Tapia (Jordi Mollà) is a tad miffed. Not so much because only two bags of pure Amsterdam ecstasy from his last $150 million shipment into South Florida was intercepted by undercover Miami Police in a bungled moonlight raid. He's been arrested twelve times, yet never convicted. And, it isn't because the sleazy Russian owner of a dance club openly fencing his pleasure pills is unknowingly laundering thousands of dollars through a five year-old DEA sting operation. Tapia's plans for that aggravating middleman soon involve a hacksaw and an empty tortilla bin. See, Johnny's reserved two of the sleek metal coffins - used to quietly smuggle his product in through the local Spanish Palms Mortuary - displayed on the grounds of his old palatial mansion especially for Detectives Mike Lowrey (Will Smith) and Marcus Burnett (Martin Lawrence). He wants them dead. He doesn't care that Burnett has found tenuous enlightenment through therapy or that Lowrey has become romantically involved with Syd (Gabrielle Union), a feisty operative with the District Attorney's office and Marcus' headstrong baby sister. Haitian gangbangers have turned the MacArthur Causeway to South Beach into a war zone, throwing a transport of runaway cars and pounds of blazing ammo at these two tenaciously reckless partners without stopping them. They've survived two Mexican stand-offs, one with the same bunch and the other with a brood of trigger-happy clansmen, in as many days without sustaining more than a friendly fire flesh wound to a rather tender butt. Just like the rats that have infested Tapia's voracious empire and his cash-bloated basement, these bad boys just won't go away. Leaving a wake of destruction where ever they go, as they relentlessly chase him from his lavish palm-lined estate to his military-protected compound in Cuba.

Well, it's been a while since 'Bad Boys' (1995) slammed into theatres. This time out, Director Michael Bay returns to give us what is easily the most irreverently explosive action movie of Summer 2003. From the eye-popping digitally enhanced 'car throwing' scenes to the John Woo-inspired gun battles (with a slice of 'The Matrix' (1999) camerawork thrown in for awesome effect), this high octane, curse-laden roller coaster ride is an absolute rip-roaring world o'carnage for most of its two and a half hour screen time. That is, if you turn your brain off and forget about trying to figure out the script's extremely clunky plot. I realize the screenwriter was trying to get Smith and Lawrence to at least appear like real detectives, following clues and figuring out how they all connect, but all of that following and figuring is really inconsequential to the meaning of this flick's existence. We wanna see stuff blown up and smashed up and filled with bullets, shot from three different angles if possible. In ear-splitting Dolby sound. We wanna hear these death-defying dudes rattle off a whack of hilariously crude one-liners as they blast through each clumsily-linked yet captivatingly entertaining in-fight and car chase and emotionally-charged reprimand from their beleaguered Captain (Joe Pantoliano). Preferably with a little blue humour and gratuitous nudity. And, to that end, this rollicking romp hits the mark dead on, to the enth degree. The only real problem I had with this picture was pretty well one of the same problems I've had with a lot of these shoot 'em up/destroy everything for fun escapades: 'Bad Boys 2' is way too stingy on character development, relying far too much on stereotype and its leading actors' raw charisma to keep you interested. So, you get Will Smith playing a macho, over the top Will Smith, and Martin Lawrence playing a whiney, smart-mouthed (quickly annoying) Martin Lawrence. Just as you've seen from both of these otherwise talented guys in most of their other films. Meaning, if you're not a fan of either Smith or Lawrence, stay clear. I'd still recommend this one as a great popcorn escape for an adult audience looking for some impressively pyrotechnic, mean-spirited silliness to fill the void.

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Bend it Like Beckham
REVIEWED 08/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Jesminder 'Jess' Bhamra (Parminder K. Nagra) dreams of playing pro soccer - football, as they call it in the UK. She loves it. Religiously glued to the TV watching her idol, Manchester United's David Beckham, surrounded by his posters and fan paraphernalia in her modest bedroom and daydreaming about kicking the championship goal. And, to the chagrin of her doting Orthodox Sikh parents, she's actually pretty good at controlling the ball and slamming it past the goalkeeper in fun matches against the boys in her Middlesex park. So much so that Jess catches the eye of Juliette 'Jules' Paxton (Keira Knightley), a feisty blonde whose own passion for the game has resulted in the creation of the local 'Hounslow Harriers' all-girls team for which she's the unofficial captain. The two quickly hit it off and, once their dreamy yet fairly demanding coach (Joe, played by Jonathan Rhys-Meyers) is convinced this bright new player has what it takes, the only problem for Bhamra is how to tell already frazzled Mom and Dad, weeks before their somewhat narcissistic eldest daughter is due to be married into a local family of a slightly higher caste. No problem, she just doesn't tell them. Opting to feign working at an HMV music store after school, when she's really out with her mates practicing for the big game. That is, until her sister finds out and Paxton ends up heartbroken when forbidden love begins to blossom between Jess and Joe.

Well, there's certainly a lot going for this light comedy of culture clash where youth rules and well-meaning adults are vaguely respected but ignored. It's got a chirpy simple script presented by a fairly good cast, and actually does chug along at an impressive click so that you're not given the chance to get bored by some of the slightly 'After School Special' aspects of these misunderstood teens' lives. And, although the editing does tend to get carried away with using what look like out-take gaffs in order to keep the overtone fun and real, you can't help but like these characters and care about what they're going through. It's meant to be an enjoyable popcorn flick, and does manage to deliver on its own terms. However, while sitting through this one, I kept feeling as though I was being spoon-fed a kind of formulaic pastiche of far more compelling stories that weren't as afraid to deal with some of the things this movie chooses to gloss over, in preference of glibly telling a safer tale of personal determination and triumph. Maybe that's what makes 'Bend it Like Beckham' apparently more popular with a female crowd, but I doubt it and suspect they could've done more on all fronts (racism, generation gap, sexual preference, and character development) to lift what you see onscreen to a more captivating level that pushes these actors beyond the stereotypes. It's a worthwhile feel-good Summer sports film as is, and one that you're bound to enjoy, but don't be surprised if you're hungry an hour later for something meatier.

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Brother Bear
REVIEWED 11/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

In a long-ago time when small tribes of people lived off the land and were at one with the spiritual forces of nature, a teenaged native named Kenai (voiced by Joaquin Phoenix) is embarrassed when he discovers that the talisman given to him by the clan's wise old Shaman (Joan Copeland) at the start of his ceremonial journey towards manhood is The Bear of Love. It's not fair. His eldest brother Sitka (D.B. Sweeney) received The Eagle of Guidance, and even his ever-mocking older brother Denahi (Jason Raize) got a cool totem of strength, before they were finally allowed to add their handprints to the Sacred Wall alongside their ancestors' as men. However, Kenai still has much to learn about his path of maturity. So, when his foolish mistake leads to the early yet heroic death of Sitka while these three brothers fight off an angry mother bear, this adolescent becomes bent on revenge and sets out to find that wild animal and kill it. He does, much to the chagrin of the ever-present and all-powerful spirits - one of whom magically transforms him into a bear that can communicate with all of the animals of these vast forests and plains. Of course, he doesn't understand what a true gift of learning about who he must become this is, and he quickly sets off on an adventurous quest to beg forgiveness and be changed back into a human at a mystical range of mountains where the Northern Lights touch the Earth, guided by a small orphaned Grizzly cub named Koda (Jeremy Suarez). What he doesn't know is that Denahi thinks he's dead and, in a fit of vengeful rage that sends this remaining brother into the wilderness to avenge his terrible loss, believes Kenai the Kodiak has killed Kenai the young man...

This eighty-five minute animated offering from Disney does tell a good story that older toddlers will likely enjoy, and does feature a lot of the trademark antics and anthropomorphized humour we've come to expect from this studio over the decades since 'Bambi' (1942), 'The Jungle Book' (1967), and 'The Lion King' (1994). Unfortunately, this flick doesn't capture the same visual or emotional depth seen in those classics, seriously weakening the over-all effect that writer Steve Bencich's screenplay might have had if more time and energy had been poured into it at the storyboard and voice casting stage. It feels simplified and rushed, as though cobbled together in point form and mindful of how it would play on television, rather than as a fully delightful and truly human story on the big screen. As though it was expected that nobody under the age of fourteen would see it, so they didn't bother filling it out with more of the same stuff that made those others I've mentioned such long-lasting family favourites. Sitting through the screening, I could easily imagine a half hour Saturday morning spin-off in the works, spotlighting Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas' blatantly rehashed McKenzie Brothers in the thin guise of the two dopey moose Rutt and Tuke (pronounced 'Root' and 'Toque') who are introduced as comic relief here. Which I guess would be all right and not altogether surprising, but wouldn't it make more sense to develop as much audience attraction to this movie's main characters first? That isn't done. Nor does there seem to be much of a discerning eye to detail between scenes - particularly near the ending. All the same, this is a strong and satisfying contemporary tale set in a pseudo-Prehistoric Age, and does deserve recognition as something worthwhile for pre-teens. I'd recommend putting it on your rental list when it goes to video, but not as a particular must-have. It could have been a lot better.

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The Barbarian Invasions
REVIEWED 11/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Upon hearing that his estranged and long-divorced Montreal father Rémy (Rémy Girard) has been hospitalized with cancer, adult son Sébastien (Stéphane Rousseau) leaves his successful London job as a primary financial trader for MacDougal-Deusch at the request of his mother (Louise, played by Dorothée Berryman), and arrives by plane at two in the morning with his Parisian-born fiancée Gaëlle (Marina Hands) to be there. And, apart from having to endure sharing a room with three other patients, in a ridiculously over-crowded hospital ward that's under heavily disorganized renovations in the gurney-packed hallways, and where none of the medical staff know his name, ex-University professor and former renowned philanderer Rémy's condition doesn't bode well. So, after a cold and cursory bedside greeting that quickly enough escalates towards him heading back to England a frustrated man, Sébastien calls in a favour from a specialist practicing in Baltimore, only to discover just how serious his Dad has deteriorated. These two men have never shared philosophies or agreed on much of anything, but what he does next is try to make things more comfortable for his dying father. Managing to sidestep Quebec's woefully atrophied government bureaucracy, hiring a dubiously-linked contractor (played by writer/director Denys Arcand) to cobble together a luxurious private room on the vacant floor below, and finally contacting the group of Rémy's dear old friends - some of whom he hasn't seen since their wild cottage weekend together full of food and drink, bravado and debauchery seventeen years ago. However, the party has long since passed them by, as this bittersweet reunion punctuates their own helpless mortality and the swansong of their youthful hedonism. When it becomes clear that Rémy's medical treatments aren't doing much to alleviate his surmounting pain, Sébastien first turns to the local authority, and then to the underground and the help of Nathalie (Marie-Josée Croze), a forgotten childhood friend who's now a proofreader for Boreal Press and a hardcore drug addict, to find a ready supply of heroin in order to maintain this ailing lion's tenuous quality of life during his last days. Funny thing is, Nathalie begins to bond with her aged contraband smoking partner, while secretly nurturing a lingering crush on soon to be married Sébastien.

Well, this English subtitled Quebec flick shouldn't have been any worse than Arcand's critically acclaimed breakthrough film, 'The Decline of the American Empire' (1986), but it is. Admittedly, it's been a few years since I last sat through that decidedly silly and intellectually pompous sex farce, but I sure didn't expect this sequel - which reunites that predecessor's now wrinklier main cast - to be so aggravatingly puffed up with such vacuous self-aggrandizement throughout. Sure, Girard's character is much older and cynical, and is pretty well embittered by the cruel waste he's made of his life, but there's not one single ounce of deep end substance to what he has to say about his politics, his philosophy, or his outlook on the world in general here. Much like the fortress of impressively stacked bookshelves in his modest home, the rich volumes of Rémy's supposedly fascinating mind have been sealed shut in favour of a few colourful titles and titillating cover blurbs. Little else. Making this very boring, while you wait for the end credits. Same goes for his friends, who all seem to have joined him in succumbing to the dumbed down capitalistic barbarianism they mutually agree is the problem with today's society. On the contrary, French-Canadian stand up comedian Rousseau absolutely shines here, portraying a young executive who's made a success of material greed and chooses to use whatever's at his disposal - above and beyond any burden of obligation - to rebuild some semblance of a familial connection with his grumbling, disapproving father. Sitting through this screening, I really wasn't quite sure why I was supposed to care about any of these aging Boomers who've pretty well settled down with their individual disillusions and collective sentimental failings, but I sure did care about the younger generation of players such as Sébastien, and Nathalie. They're the ones who haven't given up. Even Croze, who's Best Actress Award at Cannes' winning role as a chipped gold-hearted heroin addict easily steals your attention away from those who are unmercifully afforded far too much screen time, because even she pours more of herself into life than one might expect. With a lot more time spent fleshing out the thinking behind what dribbles out of the returning casts' rather catty mouths, and having the guts to leave many of the irritatingly disappointing flat scenes on the cutting room floor, 'Les Invasions Barbares' could have been a far more captivating and touching offering. As it stands, there really ain't much here worth paying to see, folks. Too bad.

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Bad Santa
REVIEWED 11/03, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

It's Christmastime in Phoenix, and three foot-tall small-time criminal Marcus (Tony Cox) has landed a gig for himself and his foul-mouthed ex-con safe-cracking partner Willie (Billy Bob Thornton) at Chamberlain's department store in that Arizona town's sprawling two-storey Saguaro Square Mall. It's the same job they've pulled for the past seven years, in seven different cities, taking in a measly temporary paycheque listening to a daily throng of children's wish lists at an ornately decorated mock Santa's Workshop by day, while casing the mall's security system and accounts vault in preparation for walking away with a hefty holiday heist come Christmas Eve. With alcoholic and self-loathing Willie vaguely posing in a stained and soiled red suit as the jolly old gent, and Marcus in fake pointed ears and goofy tights as Claus' cheery helper, these two unlikely thieves managed to walk away with $111,000 and a tidy shopping list of high-priced merchandise last year. However, when this store's prim-minded yet spineless manager Bob Chipeska's (John Ritter) uneasiness over hiring them seems ever more justified when he overhears Willie having wild sex with a loudly moaning customer in a not-so-private stall in the Women's Department's changing room, he convinces the fairly unscrupulous manager of Mall Security (Gin, played by Bernie Mac) to find an ironclad reason to fire them without incident. At the same time, a young over-weight local boy named Thurman Murman (Brett Kelly) becomes childishly enamored with this rather grouchy drunken Santa during their first short and less than picture perfect knee-side meeting and, when Gin's detective work starts to complicate this sweet scam, Willie grudgingly moves into Murman's delusional sandwich-making obsessed Grandmother's (Cloris Leachman) comfortable suburban home until it's time for him to go to work on Chipeska's double-locked Kitnerboy Redoubt that's bloated with last-minute shoppers' cash.

This hugely irreverent and original flick sure isn't going to win over any staunch fans of conventional, family-oriented Christmas movies. I loved it. Thornton is absolutely hilarious as a burned out and boozy anti-social degenerate stuck in a self-destructive rut, who just so happens to stagger around snarling at everyone while wearing a Santa Claus costume throughout most of this incredibly off-beat picture. Sure, there's an enormous amount of swearing, lewdness, and mature content here, but director Terry Zwigoff does an absolutely fabulous job of keeping all of that within the context of the story. Willie's little more than a derelict loser riding a perpetual downward spiral, who's continuously drunk and pathologically horny, but whose character development is masterfully portrayed in such a way that you can't help but like the guy. Full marks should also go to Cox, for bringing us a smart and sassy mastermind who - along with Willie - is the complete antithesis of how a general Christian-based population celebrates these traditional holiday icons. He speaks his mind and has a razor-sharp humour, and isn't at all a lazy caricature of a Little Person. It was also great to see that this last movie featuring John Ritter (1948-2003), who was previously seen in Thornton's acclaimed Oscar-winner 'Sling Blade' (1996) and was famous for being one of only a small handful of people to crack up legendary comedic genius Lucille Ball on set, is the kind of mature comedy Ritter was apparently renowned for off-screen but was never really able to shed his squeaky clean image for throughout his long public career in show business. Kelly's part is about the only slightly weak aspect of this offering, because it's never really explained what's going on in his young mind as he seems to flip back and forth between believing he's befriended the real Santa Claus who's staying over for a few days while the sleigh's in the shop, and accepting that Willie's just a marginal father figure playing the role of Saint Nick at the mall and dating a sensuous bartender who has a fetish for The Red Suit. I still don't understand the wooden pickle scene, even though I can appreciate the bizarre humour of it. By all rights, 'Bad Santa' is a definite must-see for its unpredictable and predominantly tasteless laughs, as well as it's clever balance of over the top slapstick and dark wit, but leave the kids and your sugarplum expectations safely unscarred at home. I'd be very surprised if this one doesn't become a surprise cult hit and a seasonal rental favourite. It's fabulously entertaining, for all the wrong reasons. Check it out.

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Barbershop 2
REVIEWED 02/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Big business is moving in on Chicago's Southside, with a luxurious eighteen-theatre movie plex being built around the corner and a shiny new Nappy Cuts - the eleventh location in a nation-wide chain of hi-tech hair salons equipped with German-engineered titanium razors and sleek black vinyl vibrating chairs - opening in three short weeks, directly across the street from Calvin Palmer Jr's (Ice Cube) family-run forty-six year-old barbershop. Palmer's grandfather was a barber. His father, also a barber, opened up this shop in 1958 and saw it through some pretty rough times; including the politically-charged race riot of 1968 that erupted shortly after Dr. Martin Luther King Jr's assassination, when this picture windowed storefront at 79th and Exchange would also have been destroyed by fire if it weren't for Calvin Sr's longtime friend Eddie (Cedric the Entertainer). Now, as aged Eddie finds himself chasing the memories of long-lost fiancée Loretta (Garcelle Beauvais-Nilon) on the EL train each night, Calvin and his small crew of blue-uniformed stylists face an even bigger threat, if Ward 51's sticky-fingered and soon-to-be incumbent Alderman Laidlaw Brown's (Robert Wisdom) urban renewal schemes are passed by city council. Most of the local businessmen are already onside to cash in and move on, but Palmer Jr chooses to stand his ground, throwing a Customer Appreciation barbeque on the porch out back - and eventually paying an uninvited midnight visit to that rival salon - in an attempt to compete for survival...

Well, this enjoyable yet somewhat sitcom-like sequel to 'Barbershop' (2002) plays itself out fairly well over-all and actually surpasses the first flick in character and plot development. With director Kevin Rodney Sullivan taking over the helm, this returning cast of primary players seems to have settled in to their roles more comfortably. With more heart. Pushing beyond the noisy caricatures of its predecessor, but without letting things get too serious. That's either good or bad, depending on your expectations and sense of humour. What's most noticeable is that none of the sub-stories contained here are anywhere as ridiculously over the top as the ATM robbery shtick seen the first time around. The clumsily blossoming love story between Terri (Eve) and Ricky (Michael Ealy) is fun, as are Eddie's bittersweet flashbacks and what happens with overly shy Dinka (Leonard Earl Howze). It's as though they've calmed down and grown up a notch; more involved with the community and concerned about doing what's right. At the same time, this is still a funny light comedy with a few edgy and crass jokes thrown in - thanks in large part to fun-loving curmudgeon Cedric, and Queen Latifah as Gina - Calvin's ex-girlfriend turned lease owner of the beauty salon next door (coming soon as a spin-off, likely to a theatre near you). Yes, you've probably seen most of this hundred and ten-minute gem played out elsewhere before. However, it's familiar but still fresh in this case, because you're drawn in to what's happening and given reasons to care. As though you're visiting old friends, picking up where they left off a couple of years ago. Sure, Don D. Scott's simplified human-tinged script is mildly predictable, but this predominantly heartwarming offering is entertaining. Check it out as a good rental, for the well-woven stories and welcome laughs. Good stuff.

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The Butterfly Effect
REVIEWED 02/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

There are holes in Evan Treborn's (Ashton Kutcher) memory. Ever since he was seven years old, this personably bright yet slightly brooding State University Psychology Major studying earthworms for his Memory Assimilation Midterm paper has lived with these blackouts, trying to put the small town where he grew up behind him and tenuously getting on with his promising life. Always wondering what's wrong with him that he just can't recall what happened during rather pivotal events in his childhood and teenaged past. Such as the weekend after his working mother Andrea (Melora Walters) encouraged young Evan (Logan Lerman) to start a daily journal - suggested by Sunnyvale Institute's Dr. Redfield during an uneasy visit to that mental health facility where his criminally deranged imprisoned father Jason (Elden Henson) was diagnosed and condemned to the Belleview Psychiatric Prison with the same illness manifesting in this little boy's skull - when Treborn snapped back to consciousness twice, not knowing why he was standing in his kitchen holding a large knife or standing beside his little playmate Kayleigh Miller (Sarah Widdows) in her lasciviously boozy dad's 8mm camera-equipped basement later on. Had his mind simply blotted out those moments in self-preservation? Is this a genetic sickness slowly coming to fruition, or a kind of cranial-mulching madness? When Evan (John Patrick Amedori) was struck with another double whammy at the age of thirteen - once when a dangerously stupid prank with his teenaged friends went horribly wrong, and again while trying to stop Kayleigh's (Irene Gorovaia) sadistic brother Tommy (Jesse James) from killing his dog - what had happened to him? Why can't he remember anything but fleeting snippets, even under induced clinical hypnosis? Stumbling back in to his dorm after a drunken celebratory night with his Goth room mate Thumper (Ethan Suplee), twenty year-old Evan (Kutcher) begins reading through his old diaries over beers with his lusty date out of idle curiosity, discovering to his amazement and fear that he can somehow return to those times. As though his older self can take possession of his younger self's consciousness during those mysterious gaps, and change the course of how those past instances turned out. Treborn gets few clues about this weird phenomenon from Jason - who suddenly realizes then violently tries to end this inherited 'curse' during the last time prepubescent Evan saw his dad. He gleans even less help from emotionally numb Kayleigh (Amy Smart), when he tracks her down at the old Hilltop Café where she now waitresses. So, in an unscientific attempt to initially understand this strange ability, Treborn slips back in time by concentrating on selected pages from his hand-scribbled notebooks, and unwittingly sets in motion a series of personally historic alterations that may detrimentally affect him and his young friends for the rest of their lives.

Wow. This incredibly captivating fantasy from writer/director duo Eric Bress and J. Mackye Gruber is definitely a fresh approach to the notion of time travel and the consequences of trying to change the past. The term 'The Butterfly Effect' was actually coined by MIT research meteorologist and Chaos Theorist Edward Lorenz in the 1960's, when he found that making tiny adjustments to his computerized weather models created huge alterations in the outcome of those patterns, surmising that a butterfly's wings flapping on one continent might cause monsoons half way around the world. And yes, both that theory and this movie have been linked to prolific sci-fi writer Ray Bradbury's famous short story and multi-adapted teleplay 'A Sound of Thunder', where a big game hunter from 2055 AD squashes a prehistoric butterfly during a jungle safari in 60,000,000 BC, changing the outcome of World War Two. However, Bradbury had already published that Lorenz-unconnected fiction in his compilation 'The Golden Apples of the Sun: And Other Stories' by the early 1950's, and Bress and Gruber's screenplay feels more like an extended metaphysically dark episode of television's 'Quantum Leap' (1989-93) inspired in part by the apocalyptic big screen thriller 'Twelve Monkeys' (1995) than anything else. 'The Butterfly Effect' has an old style of storytelling to it, because it never really explains the science behind Kutcher's character's ability to go back and change the past. Much like trying to explain intuition or deja vu, the science doesn't matter. He simply can suddenly shift backwards through his life, and does. With outstandingly fascinating results probably never seen quite like this before. 'Slaughterhouse Five' (1972) came to mind, while I was sitting in the theatre transfixed and thoroughly involved with this picture, but that alien-tinged classic is a pale comparison. This one's truly an original; clever and sharp, as we see each outcome of Treborn's sometimes frantic attempts to at first make things right and then fumble for redemption trying mend the long-term damage he's caused to pretty well everyone around him. Shot primarily on location in and around Vancouver, this two-hour gem is definitely the type of cinematic offering that many might not know what to make of at first viewing. The hordes of critics who've panned it for what I'd consider dubious reasons come to mind. However, the entire main cast pull in some over-all wonderful performances here, keeping a paying audience interested in what's slamming back and forth between alternate realities, because you're given reasons to care about these people. Check out this surprisingly worthwhile and slightly paradigm-altering diversion for the fabulously well-paced story and impressive talent throughout. Incredibly good stuff.

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The Big Bounce
REVIEWED 03/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
www.ofrb.gov.on.ca | www.rcq.gouv.qc.ca


REVIEW:

Having drifted day by day, through a somewhat crooked life of 'bad luck and bad choices' - including whacking an aluminum baseball bat across the jaw of his recent-now-ex supervisor in front of a television news camera, during a protest at the Hawaiian-based construction site of Ritchie Global's newest luxury hotel - ruggedly laid back Jack Ryan (Owen Wilson) ends up working for District Judge Walter Crewes (Morgan Freeman). See, Crewes owns a small resort spot up the tropical beach from real estate mogul Ray Ritchie's (Gary Sinise) oceanfront home, and seems to secretly like how Jack handled himself on tape against that loudmouthed agent of his malevolent neighbour. Word is, it's only a matter of time before Walter's twelve cozy bungalows are next on Ritchie's hit list, once those pesky protesters are quietly taken care of and their sacred burial grounds are bulldozered over. However, Ryan's merely brought on board as a $300 a week handyman. Fixing leaky showerheads. Pruning bushes. Keeping an eye on the swimming tourists, as a lifeguard. That is, until Jack meets Nancy Hayes (Sara Foster), Mr. Ritchie's sumptuous personal live-in assistant when wife Alison Ritchie (Bebe Neuwirth) is away on the mainland. He's instantly smitten with her, losing all concentration whenever she's in his sights. Nancy's the kind of self-involved nubile young woman who craves excitement. Dangerous excitement. So, when she learns of Ryan's checkered past, and he naively shows her a few tricks of the petty theft trade in the hopes of winning her questionable affections, she approaches him with a fifty thousand dollar proposal. Seems Ray plans to hire a few goons to deal with the locals fighting to block his work crew, but Hayes wants Jack to help her steal that blood money for themselves. All he has to do is walk in poor, and walk out rich. The scheme is set, and the cash is almost in hand. Problem is, Alison suddenly comes home and everything starts to unravel, just as Jack begins to suspect there's more to this heist than he was supposed to see...

Admittedly, I don't recall ever seeing the identically-named 1969 film version starring Ryan O'Neal that was based on the same crime novel by renowned seventy-nine year-old writer Elmore Leonard - who also penned the original stories adapted into such cinematic hits as 'Get Shorty' (1995) and 'Jackie Brown' (1997). However, what you get this time around is a fairly dull light-hearted dark comedy rife with surprisingly unremarkable plot twists and a host of vaguely quirky characters throughout. 'The Big Bounce' starts off as a kind of uneven love story set in what seems like a snake pit of modestly untrustworthy players, but eventually lets itself get sidetracked into becoming a full blown labyrinth of scams and double crosses by the last half. Completely tossing the entire storyline out the window for the sake of twisting off the audiences' heads with a final, ridiculously cobbled together murder plot where pretty well everything you were patiently following along with is revealed to have been totally fake from the beginning. In far more capable hands, this flick might have worked. You may even feel satisfied with your keen skills of deduction here in realizing early on that, just as the guest stars on those bad old TV detective shows were rarely cast as whodunit-unimportant walk-ons, it's no real puzzle why Sebastian Gutierrez's screenplay has Freeman and Neuwirth basically sitting on the sidelines for three quarters of this sometimes nauseatingly meandering picture. Frankly, I felt like I was watching an embarrassing rip off of the universally superior 'Matchstick Men' (2003) at times, grating my teeth through Wilson's drawled out dialogue, anticipating the obvious ending so that I could quickly forget about this waste of my time and money. I'd read that it was heavily edited after being finished, in order to turn its initial R rating into a PG-13 stamp of approval - explaining why the ads and trailer contained mostly unused scenes. Well, something more sure got lost on the cutting room floor that probably more resembles a worthwhile screening, because this one definitely falls apart at almost every turn. Simply put, this unfunny gnarl is agonizingly boring and tediously dreadful.

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Bubba Ho-tep
REVIEWED 05/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

An ancient evil lurks in the dimly moonlit hallways of East Texas' decrepit Mudcreek Shady Rest Home, and the geriatric team of John F. Kennedy (Ossie Davis) and Elvis Presley (Bruce Campbell) are determined to solve its deadly mystery. That's right, The JFK. The way this slightly unbelievable former American president tells it, he'd survived that assassination attempt in Dallas - only to have the missing part of his brain replaced with a bag of sand, before being dyed to look like a Black man and then ending up at this secluded old age residency in secret. To protect him from White House successor Lynden Johnson's henchmen trying to finish him off, apparently. Similarly, the King of Rock and Roll didn't die of a drug overdose in his Graceland bathroom after-all. That was premier Elvis impersonator Sebastian Haff, the professional look-alike circuit stage performer Presley surreptitiously traded places with - shortly after Priscilla had left him - to escape the trappings of his monumental success for the freedom of the open road, impersonating himself. A string of bad luck under the guise of Haff had landed him at Shady for the last twenty years. Fading in and out of a coma, dealing with a bad hip and, well, a painfully septic irritation. With all that set straight, and pretty well nobody taking their stories seriously, these two quickly become suspicious of a horrifying series of grizzly midnight deaths. Kennedy first thought those strange recent expirations were simply a part of the grand scheme of this riverside retirement campus, where the elderly get shuffled away by family to be forgotten and die. That is, until he discovered some hieroglyphic graffiti scratched into the wall of the public bathroom stall, and it all became clear to him: A centuries-old soul-sucking Egyptian mummy dug up from its eternal resting place in Luxor decades back is roaming the halls and killing them off each night, one by one. What else could it be? Finding a certain relief from his nagging bed-ridden melancholy, Elvis' sudden visions of a dark presence - and a near-fatal attack by the biggest cockroach he's ever seen - send these unlikely heroes on the most dangerous adventure of their lives...

Well, what can I say? Based on self-professed 'mojo story-teller' Joe R. Lansdale's short tale initially featured in his now out-of-print 1994 compilation, 'Writer of the Purple Rage', writer/director Don Coscarelli's hard to find underground B-grade cult flick is an hilarious piece of ridiculous mature fun. Apparently, only seven prints were made of this 2002 theatrical release, but it's already garnered huge popularity at various international film festivals and select screenings since then, resulting in it being offered on DVD for wider distribution to fans of this decidedly goofy horror genre. Campbell is great here, completely transforming himself under two hours of prosthetic make up to give us Elvis as an ornery and self-defeatist codger haunted by past mistakes and the loss of contact with family, who chews out wonderfully audaceous curled-lipped lines while slowly reclaiming his youthful vigor (and rhinestone-sequined jumpsuit) during this bizarre hunt for the murderous walking dead. It's still a caricature of Presley, but one that a paying audience is given reasons to care about and enjoy. Full marks also go to Davis, whose co-starring role of deadpan lunacy mixed with a tenuous grasp on reality is truly a fresh and often sidesplitting delight here. Sure, Coscarelli's captivating oddball script does tilt over the thin grey line between uproarious irreverence and sheer stupidity at times throughout its hour and thirty-two minute romp, but that's part of what makes this altogether campy offering such a keeper. Those involved obviously knew this picture's entire premise was silly, and yet it shows that truckloads of heart and enthusiasm were poured into virtually every page of dialogue and well-paced scene in order to give you something stylishly schlocky and undeniably worthwhile. It's top-notch sophomoric humour, welcoming you along for a quirky ride in to monster-huntin' country. One that's spiked with enough memorable performances to make you want more by the closing credits. Definitely check out 'Bubba Ho-tep' on the big screen or as a fun rental for grown-ups, if you're itchin' for some marvelously concocted entertainment from left field. Good stuff.

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Breakin' All the Rules
REVIEWED 05/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Stand-up comedian Jamie Foxx does a surprisingly well-rounded job at presenting smart romance and smarter humour throughout here, as Los Angeles' hip yet heart-broken Spoil magazine editor Quincy Watson, who's roped into writing a professional termination manual by his rather spineless boss (Peter MacNicol) and ends up publishing a popular how-to book for people wanting to end their relationships fuss-free. Frankly, this captivating comedy of errors and mistaken identities spiked with some intelligently worthwhile scenes probably deserves far more attention than it's gotten in theatres, because writer/director Daniel Taplitz deftly taps into this genre in ways that even the most jaded moviegoer can relate to and thoroughly enjoy. Of course, it helps that Foxx's love interest is actor Gabrielle Union - St. Agatha Hospital's personably fascinating physiotherapist Nicky, who this rich but lonely puppy ends up breaking pretty well all of his clinical rules of disengagement for. The clips of dialogue between them are some of the best I've witnessed in a while. Awesome. Morris Chestnut (as his player buddy Evan) and Jennifer Esposito (as MacNicol's devilish gold digging girl friend Rita Monroe) wonderfully complete this capable main cast, giving a paying audience a fairly tight and wryly funny mature romp that does slightly suffer from some uninspired camerawork and too much time wasted on a booze-hungry pug for laughs, but is definitely an entertaining up-lifting gem from beginning to end over-all. Well worth the price of admission. Good stuff.

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Bon Voyage
REVIEWED 06/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

This wonderfully entertaining subtitled French-language wartime actioner from 'Cyrano de Bergerac's (1990) co-writer/director Jean-Paul Rappeneau plunges aspiring Parisian novelist Frédéric Auger (Grégori Derangère) into a shady world of espionage after escaping from jail - for a murder he didn't commit - during the Nazi occupation of France in 1940. Sure, it's slightly difficult to accept that forty nine year-old real life Oscar-winning screen diva Isabelle Adjani plays twenty-five year-old movie celebrity Viviane Denvers, but her over-all performance as Auger's and Interior Minister of Parliament Jean-Étienne Beaufort's (Gérard Depardieu) often hilariously self-absorbed love interest is brilliantly delightful here. Full marks. However, it's thoroughly captivating performances from Virginie Ledoyen - as fleeing Professeur Kopolski's (Jean-Marc Stehlé) vivaciously bold College du France's Physics assistant Camille - and Yvan Attal - as Frédéric's maverick pal Raoul - that easily steal the spotlight shared with Derangère's riveting presence to keep this hundred and fourteen minute 2003 cloak and dagger adventure fresh throughout. Awesome. What makes 'Bon Voyage' such a fabulous winner for a paying audience tired of cliché blockbusters from this genre is that Rappeneau and co-writers Gilles Marchand, Patrick Modiano, Julien Rappeneau and Jérôme Tonnerre obviously spend time developing these charming three-dimensional main characters within the much larger tumult of World War Two, cleverly infusing the script with intriguing historical asides while remaining focused on how each life is affected by their converging goals during that dangerous time. Frankly, the rollicking main story impressively rises to the level of such Noir classics as 'Notorious' (1946) or even 'North by Northwest' (1959) at several key points, as though Hitchcock drafted the premise himself. I'm not sure if this one in any way resembles that cinematic master's 1942 short of the same name, but this lush humour-tinged thriller is surely a deserving tribute to that monumental legacy either way. Excellent casting, smart labyrinthine plotlines, and Thierry Arbogast's sometimes astounding camerawork, make this one a definite must-see on the big screen if possible. Truly amazing.

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Broken Wings
REVIEWED 06/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Wow. Picking up some fairly prestigious awards while touring the international film festival circuit since its regional release in 2002, Israeli writer/director Nir Bergman's wonderfully sobering English-subtitled 'Knafayim Shvurot' ('Broken Wings' in Hebrew) seamlessly parachutes you into the numbed contemporary lives of middle aged twenty-year veteran Haifa maternity nurse Dafna Ulman (Orly Silbersatz Banai) and her four rather precocious children - Yair (Nitai Gaviratz), Maya (Maya Maron), Ido (Daniel Magon) and Bahr (Eliana Magon) - nine months after their beloved patriarch suddenly died. The entire family's an emotionally splintered wreck, with each surviving Ulman tenuously bottling up their sorrow and some of them barely shrugging it off with an unconvincingly brave "Things could be worse" quip. Banai is absolutely brilliant here, as her exhausted character physically drags herself through the motions despite a never-ending internalized distress that's matched only by long demanding shifts working at the bustling local Rotschild Hospital. Seventeen year-old daughter Maya is pretty well a basket case on pause. Brittley reaching out for love; desperately escaping into her musical talents as a way of somehow relieving the guilt of being the last to see her father alive and the burden as second mother to her five and ten year-old siblings. It's tough to believe that this is Maron's first feature, considering how powerfully her truly captivating performance holds this eighty-seven minute gem together - capped by an incredibly raw moment of catharsis when she records her touching song in a Tel-Aviv studio. Yes, there's more to this awesome picture than scene after scene of overwhelming depressive moping and held back tears of frustration. This flick is about healing, but it's portrayed in a completely realistic and intelligent manner throughout. Pulling its audience in with a compelling ensemble cast and an incredibly fresh script. Gaviratz, as heart-broken and brooding intellectual eldest sibling, brilliantly encapsulates these souls' trauma when he confesses to his recently returned ex-girlfriend that he's afraid of being happy, followed by them falling into a much-needed tender embrace. Anyone who's gone through such a loss would likely find it difficult not to empathize and breathe a huge sigh of relief when Dafna and her children begin to smile again, after a far more immediate crisis slams at them all from left field. This thread of loved ones being consequential victims has been examined recently by Hollywood with the far more violent 'Mystic River' (2003) and the sadly overlooked 'City by the Sea' (2002), but 'Broken Wings' manages to simply and masterfully capture an unabridged reality closer to the heart that's definitely well worth spending time with. This unforgettably important treasure is truly deserving of attention and every ounce of praise.

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The Blind Swordsman: Zatoichi
REVIEWED 07/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

In talking about his updated adaptation of 'Zatoichi' - apparently one of Japan's most famous fictional heroes, originating from the late author Kan Shimozawa's novels, previously starring Shintaro Katsu in twenty-six films from 1962 to 1986 and in the same-named hit television series (1974-1979) there - former comedian and award-winning director Takeshi 'Takechan-Man' Kitano wanted to take a different approach, making this wandering 19th Century blind masseuse/deadly protector of innocents more of an outsider by giving him blonde hair and having him act far less socially connected than Katsu's popular version. This, as well as changing Zatoichi's plain wooden walking stick to that of an ominous blood red cane concealing his trusty razor-sharp katana, wonderfully sets the tone for this slightly eccentric and enigmatic character from the first moments you see Kitano in the title role. Unfortunately, writer Kitano's (he wrote, directed and starred in this subtitled 2003 Toronto International Film Festival People's Choice topper) clunky slow-paced script fails to keep the momentum going; beyond its incredibly stylish fight scenes, almost as though this movie was edited together without anyone actually looking at it with an eye for plot continuity. Truckloads of potentially brilliant nuances are completely wasted here or simply lost in translation. Sure, the separate sub-stories featuring Yuuko Daike and Daigorô Tachibana as Geisha-disguised Okinu and Osei Naruto avenging the ten-year old murder of their rich family, and Tadanobu Asano's brooding Ronin Gennosuke Hattori coldly slaughtering his new criminal employer's equally crooked enemies, do offer up some barely decent individual performances, but this hundred and sixteen minute picture is so heavily sabotaged by its disjointed structure that even these and the more hilarious moments of physical comedy sprinkled throughout fail to motivate a paying audience's sustained involvement in what transpires onscreen. It's puzzling. Yes, the costuming, and how most of the flashback sequences are handled, are undoubtedly impressive. And, yes. The copious jaw-dropping swordplay - where Kitano reportedly wanted the incredibly brutal CGI-created blood splattering to artistically burst like petals across the screen - is probably some of the best high velocity choreographed weaponry work I've ever seen on the big screen. However, the over-all presentation and the rather vague reasons given to care about most of these primary players are sadly weak, making this offering a huge disappointment. What finally did it for me was the over-long ending, where 'The Blind Swordsman: Zatoichi' suddenly becomes a ridiculously relentless and pointless percussion-accompanied ensemble dance number. A surprising relief from Keiichi Suzuki's aggravatingly skull-numbing synthesized soundtrack, but in a bad way similar to getting a bad taste out of your mouth by chewing glass. Weird. I can't really recommend checking out this over-all cinematic disaster, but it might possibly be a worthwhile rental - with thumb firmly poised over the fast forward button - if you're in any way a huge fan of well-crafted Period Samurai action sequences, enjoyed without the burden of slogging through this otherwise miserable movie-watching experience.

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The Bourne Supremacy
REVIEWED 07/04, © STEPHEN BOURNE
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REVIEW:

Catchy title. Based on the 1986 second installment from best-selling author Robert Ludlum's (1927-2001) famous trilogy about amnesia-stricken ex-CIA assassin David Webb; black ops codename: Jason Bourne, director Paul Greengrass takes the helm of this sequel to 'The Bourne Identity' (2002) as Jason (Matt Damon) returns to the field and out for revenge after two years of hiding in India with girlfriend Marie (Franka Potente), when he's framed for the murder of an important US Intelligence informant by Russian hitman Jarda (Marton Csokas) under the malicious employment of a millionaire Moscow oil tycoon named Gretkov (Karel Roden). Such is the life of a movie critic - uh, I mean highly trained killing machine - like Bourne, when foggy nightmares of an unauthorized mission in Berlin sends him on the hunt for the truth from his former puppet masters, just as fiesty CIA task force chief Pamela Landly (Joan Allen) begins tracking him from Italy to Germany. It's easy to imagine that returning screenwriter Tony Gilroy's script probably looked absolutely fabulous on paper as a truly involved espionage thriller. However, the final cut is so heavily burdened by far too many drawn out scenes that don't really go anywhere and is shot in an overwhelmingly poor manner by cinematographer Oliver Wood, that any real sense of tension gets lost during execution at several key points. The camerawork really is some of the most annoying, eyeball jarring stuff that I can remember sitting through. Torturous. Yes, 'The Bourne Supremacy' is definitely a meticulous detective story rife with deception and double cross set in the classic style of 'Three Days of the Condor' (1975) or even 'Ronin' (1998), and a lot of the pure action sequences and car stunts are incredibly impressive throughout, but the movie as a whole falls apart for lack of sustained momentum in much the same way the first one did. While undeniably better than its predecessor, it's still feels unusually plodding for the most part. Even the superior trippy soundtrack failed to keep me involved with what transpires. Perhaps it's because Greengrass seems to rely on Damon's otherwise reasonably good performance but less than captivating screen presence to carry a paying audience's attention, but you're also never really given a reason to care about this surly haunted man blessed with razor-sharp senses and lightening fast reflexes who just wants to be left alone with his splintered memories. I'd read recently that a fourth additional novel, 'The Bourne Legacy' by Eric Van Lustbader, was published through the Ludlum estate earlier this year in reaction to pleas from readers. Well, this crew has one more Ludlum-penned book - 'The Bourne Ultimatum' - to take a crack at adapting for the big screen beforehand. Hopefully it'll be a lot tighter paced and far better presented than this headache-inducing snoozer was. Definitely rent it if you enjoyed the first Bourne film, but don't be surprised if you suffer from a major case of numb rump before most of the heavily blurred action kicks into high gear.

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